Sarmatian Trust
by LilyoftheValley4
Summary: As a Roman soldier, Arthur must earn the trust of his Sarmatian knights. When rebellion stirs in Sarmatia the knights must make a choice to follow Arthur and be servants to Rome, or to take Arthur's life and live in the freedom of their homeland.
1. Victory

**A/N**: This fanfic takes place five years into the fifteen. The knights have yet to meet Arthur and some knights have yet to meet the others. Please read and review!

Chapter 1

Lancelot twisted his sword around his shoulder in a swift graceful motion seconds before he christened the blade with the blood of a rebel. He fell without a sound. His body motionless, returning his filthy rags to the dirt that tainted them. Slowly Lancelot stood to his full height, his black armor making muted clangs as he moved. The village was in shambles. Fires had erupted inside or around almost all the mud and straw houses. People, villagers, Roman soldiers, and scattered Sarmatian knights lay dead on the ground. Horses whinnied nervously as they roamed the remains, rider-less. This was the victory of battle.

Pleading from the other side of the camp caused Lancelot's head to turn. There, the familiar red cape and shiny golden helmet of a Roman soldier caught his attention. The soldier's sheath was empty and the point of its occupant was directed at the neck of a villager. She was dressed in rags, not so unlike the other villagers with a white apron that was reminiscent of at least a dozen homemade meals. She had fallen to her knees and had her hands reaching up towards him. Her brown hair was in shambles around her face, and even from where he stood he could see the reflection of tears in her eyes.

Lancelot quickened his pace to a jog with his sword in hand and reached the side of the Roman soldier.

"Sheath your sword in the presence of a lady," Lancelot ordered his own sword at his side.

"She's a rebel," the Roman soldier argued shouldering Lancelot out of the way. Lancelot raised his sword and positioned it at the stomach of the Roman soldier.

"I have no allegiance to Rome. You will sheath your sword or I'll prove where my loyalties lie." The Roman soldier's eyes met his, and there was nothing but determination there. The Roman soldier backed down with one last look at the cowering woman.

"You saved my life, my lord. I don't know how to thank you," the woman said, still on her knees.

Lancelot squatted down so that he could meet the woman's eyes with his own. "Leave this land while you can." The woman, her cheeks still damp with tears, held her next words with confidence.

"There is no land that Rome holds no ground to." Lancelot eyed the woman curiously but said nothing more.

"Lancelot!" Lancelot turned and looked in the direction the call of his name was coming from. He recognized Gawain's figure. Lancelot turned back to the woman briefly before standing up and heading towards Gawain. As he got closer, Lancelot felt himself fill with dread. He sheathed his sword and quickened his pace to a run. Gawain was looking down over the fallen body of a Sarmatian soldier, Toltheon.

Toltheon had been one of Lancelot's closest friends. He was from a small village about twenty-five miles from his own village. No one understood Lancelot like Toltheon had. Now his shoulder length strawberry hair framed his face. Black fuzz decorated his chin even after having shaved earlier that morning. His eyes stood staring at the vast blue sky. His intimidating black armor almost masked the sword wound that kept him pinned to the ground.

Lancelot allowed his eyes to follow Toltheon's. A hawk flew across the sky. Lancelot watched it in admiration. It had such freedom. A loud whistle suddenly pierced the sky and Lancelot watched how the hawk circled for a moment, as if undecided, before traveling down the earth and landing on the arm of another Sarmatian soldier. Choice. Next to freedom, choice was the next source of envy. Lancelot's eyes fell back onto his fallen friend sorry that he never had a chance to fight a battle unconnected with Rome.

"Help me raise him to a horse," Lancelot said to Gawain. Gawain nodded and went off to find Lancelot's horse. Lancelot brought himself of his knee and stood over his friend, half wishing he now had the freedom that Toltheon had in death, but at the same time not wanting to follow Roman orders that have continuously darkened the Sarmatian culture as it had for hundreds of years.

Gawain returned in short time, Lancelot's horse in hand. Lancelot mounted as Gawain picked up Tholtheon and sat him up in the saddle in front of Lancelot. Looking at the pair together, Tholtheon almost looked alive.

"Tell Panador I'm riding ahead," Lancelot said referring to the leader of the knights as he kicked the sides of his horse.

"Ride swift, my friend," Gawain called as Lancelot took off. "Ride swift."


	2. Grave Meetings

**A/N**: Thank you to all who reviewed, and don't worry the unfamiliar characters will be explained a little more in this chapter!

Chapter 2

_ "_Lucius Artorius Castus. We've heard a great many things about you," Bishop Adeodatus announced while coming down the wide marble staircase of the Donato Cathedral in Rome. He was ornamented in gold and red that successfully hid his broad shoulders that had once supported at least one broad sword in his time. His face was softly shaven and his eyes held a thirst for blood. It was difficult not to find a Roman in such a state. The desire for land, for power, was strong amongst its people. Even if there were disagreements amongst the mode of achieving Rome's grandeurs, there was little dispute over the advanced culture that Roman culture had created and the potential it held to civilize its conquered people.

"But you have been named Arthur amongst your men, have you not?" Arthur gave the bishop a curt nod. "Well, you've made quite a mark on the church. A good mark at that. We feel that a commission of greater fortitude would better accommodate your abilities." Arthur said nothing but continued to penetrate the bishop with his intimidating gaze, causing the bishop to continue somewhat nervously.

"The church is sending you to southern Briton. There you will find a league of Sarmatian knights fully trained and readied for your command." The bishop stopped as if expecting Arthur to become giddy that Rome was entrusting him with such a gift, but Arthur remained impassive.

"I promise you I will serve Rome well, there," Arthur spoke in a voice that even in its natural state of being, commanded respect and authority.

"We have no doubt in that," Bishop Adeodatus confirmed. "You will leave when you have made ready." Arthur bowed the power vested in his body forward in a silent contract as a loyal servant to the church before leaving the church and making for his quarters in town.

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Little time was wasted in preparation. Arthur took provisions of water and bread for the journey, which he estimated would be a three days ride. Angelo, an orphan boy of thirteen who was taken in by the church and spent most of time in the upkeep of the stables, had prepared Arthur's horse for the journey. The nights to the little boy were free for him to dream of knighthood and the fairy tales that surrounded damsels in distress and survival through daring ventures that almost always spelt sudden death. He knew very little of what a knight really was.

Arthur found his horse in the stable aisle way decked out in fantastic silver armor that made him resemble a beast fortified out of rock. Arthur detached Excalibur from his waist and attached the sheath to the saddle so that it could be easily accessible if needed. Arthur took one last look around, and found Angelo standing in the middle of the stables watching him. His blond hair barely reached his ears but draped down almost to an annoyance at the tip of his eyes. His rather skinny figure was decorated in a simple green tunic with matching trousers that did much to cover most of the dirt stains that barn boys were susceptible to.

"You're leaving, my lord," the boy said quietly, but there was no question.

"I have duties to Rome," Arthur replied while mounting.

"I speak to you, my lord, for fear that the journey for which you prepare, will keep you long away from Rome."

"Indeed, I cannot be assured of the time for which I'll be away, but tell me why this concerns you so."

"Your horse holds much beauty and wisdom, my lord. I fear I shall miss him," the boy said bowing his head as if admitting to weakness.

"There are never any guarantees to what the days ahead will bring, but to your fears, there's faith in days forthcoming you will serve a stead of your own quite well, and in return he will be as loyal to you as my own is to me," Arthur said with much conviction.

"I thank you for your faith, my lord. I will not delay you any longer," the boy said stepping aside.

"You have served my horse and I quite well, hold truth in my words." With that Arthur gave his horse a light kick and exited the stables at a trot.

The cobblestone streets made rhythmic clicks of the horse's feet, and Arthur looked around the city as he made his way to the gates in reminisce. Never had a city affected him as much as this. There were no limits to what such an awesome power that was Rome, could do. For Rome to spread its wisdom to so many unknown lands, was a great cause, a cause that many lands would see in due time.

Finally, Arthur reached the large iron gates of the city. The gates themselves were decorated with fearless creatures such as the characteristics that lions and bears brought. They held the memory of all the past soldiers who had fought with bravery and strength to make Rome the great power it was today. The gates alone made him thankful to be a Roman, but the people for which the gates represented, made him feel invincible to the world.

The gates took little hesitation in opening. Obviously his presence had been expected, for when he reached the vast open land hidden behind the gates, he found twenty Roman men armed with golden armor and red cloth waiting on horseback on the other side.

"For whom have you men come?" Arthur demanded upon seeing them.

"We wait to ride with Arthur Castus," one of the Roman soldiers answered him back.

"I am Arthur."

"We were sent to accompany you to Hadrian's Wall by the honorable Bishop Adeodatus." Arthur looked at the men, unsure really for the reason of their presence, but had the intention of keeping to his plan. They were going to reach Hadrian's Wall in three days time.

"Let us ride then," Arthur said as he finally opened the wings of his horse and took off down the grassy hill away from the familiarity of Rome.

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The journey was tiring and the Roman riders of his company were lagging in speed. The first night had been fair riding. The ground had been slightly moist to give the horses traction and comfort in the stability of the ground. Their pace had been quicker then, but the second day brought many delays. The skies brought rain and to the dejection of the men, seemed to have the intention of following them their entire journey.

Arthur however, felt no duty to them to slow his pace. Had it been up to him, he would have refused the escort. If any of them had the desire to stop he did not have the intention of stopping with them. They had the choice of resting a night and meeting him at Hadrian's Wall as soon as they were rested, or even turning home if they wanted, but Arthur had no responsibility to these men. These were not the men of his command and they could do as they wished.

The rain however, did dampen even Arthur's pace. The ground was absorbing as much water as a water-filled sponge and therefore made the ground treacherous for the horses. Otherwise, the rain brought a refreshing outlet. Though the land was gloomily darkened by bulging rain filled clouds, Arthur still marveled at the vastness of the Roman Empire. On a map the empire looked immense, but no distances were truly admired until they were attempted in travel.

The night of the second day the rain had lessened, but still kept the air thick with moisture, and a thin mist that did little more than decrease Arthur's visual distance by less than half a mile. By morning, a few men had taken the opportunity to rest, with little understanding of Arthur's haste. It was his strength that pushed him so, and his loyalty to Rome. There would be plenty of time for relaxation and merriment once he reached the wall, but until then, the focus was only on getting there, and if safety behind the walls was what Arthur was looking for, there was no reason to stop and delay the journey.

Late afternoon brought Arthur and the remaining Roman soldiers to a village about forty miles away from the wall. They entered the village at a walk, being careful not to trample anything on their way. Through the village, women stopped in the midst of raising buckets full of water from wells to stare at them as well as men who were finishing an evening's work in the field. Even the children stopped their childish games to allow their gaze to fasten on these new comers.

The red and gold were colors the villagers easily recognized. They found them every few years coming to their land taking their sons to fight for a land none of them believed in. Some would return after having served their time, many did not. Fear and hope was seen in their faces. Mothers and fathers were seen hoping to catch sight of long lost sons, others took to hustling the sons into houses in hope of diminishing their chances of being taken. Arthur found the scene somewhat confusing. There was no reverence to their presence. For the most part, the sentiment was mutual in a general desire to see the parade of Roman soldiers disappear. Of course he understood that not all people honored Roman rule in the same way he did, but the thing that disturbed him the most was the lack of respect. The only emotions the Roman presence seemed to have on them were fear and hatred.

"Roman scum!" Arthur subconsciously stopped his horse abruptly and found himself turning in the direction of the voice. A man taking punishment for a crime only God could forgive with his head in arms through a well-crafted set of stocks was looking at the roman horsemen in disgust. He was thin and sunburnt as if he had been enduring his punishment for a good many days. A white beard decorated his face, and his white hair on his head was thinned out with age.

"You're good to come in here with superiority, aren't you? All the land on this glorious Earth belongs to Rome, doesn't it?" The man said sarcastically. "Yes, the colors of Rome. They're much appropriate. Gold is the power made to sop up the blood. All that red. Your blinding red! It's the power that lets the Roman bastards sleep. For the blood, the blood of our sons means nothing to you! It's always the gold. Never the blood—"

"Oh there will be blood!" A Roman soldier yelled. He dismounted his horse and within moments found himself in front of the old man a fist made ready. Before Arthur could stop him, the soldier had slammed his fist into the man's jaw. The Roman soldier pulled his arm back for another hit but was stopped by Arthur's voice.

"Enough!" The Roman soldier looked into Arthur's eyes, but the anger for what the soldier had done far outweighed any anger the soldier had for what the man had said. The soldier gave one last look at the man before making his way back to his horse and mounting without a sound. The whole village was silent.

The man in the stocks sputtered, his face hung over the ground. He grinned when he saw a few dots of blood splatter across the wooden platform as he shook off the blow, and to Arthur's surprise he laughed.

"Here's the blood, but where's the victory?" He asked as he laughed at every single one of the soldiers in front of him. "You will uncover no gold from me."

Arthur left the village not saying a word in Rome's honor. There was no need to debate with a senile man. Rome's colors were filled with prestige and honor. However, the pain the man broadcasted did not go unnoticed by Arthur, and he began to understand a little better why these people were so unsettled by a Roman presence. The blatant hostility unfortunately, was not expected. These people had yet to discover what possibilities Rome still held for them. In time he hoped, these people would see that, and the views of that single bitter man would come to see how wrong he was.

The Roman soldier who had stepped out of line however, was unwilling to let such rude disregard for Rome go. As soon as they had traveled a fair distance away from the village, the Roman soldier trotted up along side Arthur.

"Are you not a Roman?" The soldier demanded.

"I am," Arthur replied confidently.

"Then why in God's name did you allow Rome to be befouled by such blasphemy?"

Arthur replied without giving the soldier a single glance. "I did nothing to taint the Roman name. You sir took care of that yourself when you allowed yourself to be baited by his meaningless banter and become the soldier he was coaxing everyone to despise."

As well proven as Arthur's point was, the soldier would not relent. The anger the man in the stocks had evoked in him would not allow the matter to be dropped. "Men like that unsettle the people. They increase the number of the Woads who follow that devil Merlin and set out to destroy all that Rome has worked so hard to built. They need to be made to understand that those beliefs will not be tolerated. Not if Rome is to survive."

Arthur let his eyes trace the ground as he found that the man's rants about blood more accurate than he would have liked to admit. "You want to turn every piece of land, every single village into a battlefield when it cannot be so. It is understood that after victory there is a fight to keep what was won, but not every battle needs to be fought. Choices have to be made, and those are the choices for Rome."

From the corner of his eyes, Arthur could see the soldier's glare. "Laziness is choice. Every battle in the name of Rome is worth fighting." Arthur let the soldier have the final word. The arguments had made sufficient points, neither with any leverage to the other, and that's why there needed to be an end. Even in the last breath of an argument, the end came down to choice and it was Arthur who had chosen.

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Arthur and the Roman soldiers reached Hadrian's Wall by early morning of the fourth day. The rain had proven to be Arthur's biggest delay, but managed only to hinder the journey by a few hours, and that was a relief. As soon as the Roman soldiers from the wall caught sight of the approaching soldiers, efforts were made to open the heavily spiked iron doors so by the time they had arrived, all they had to do was slow their pace to trot and make their way into the city behind the wall.

The town was quite inactive. Very few people had awakened yet. Arthur made his way into the stables, dismounted, and removed Excalibur from the horse's side. He gave his horse to one of the stable hands, and regretfully, not with the same reassurances of care that Angelo had provided him with back in Rome.

Arthur let his gaze trace the wall that was made out of large cobble stones for as far as the eye could see. He was exhausted to be sure, but the temptation of standing on the wall and looking into the valley as the sun began to rise was too tempting to surpass. The morning had cleared up sufficiently, and though the ground moistened his steps as he walked, it left no trace of any of the earth's moisture on the outside of his shoes.

From one side of the wall, Arthur could view the path from which he came along with acres of billowing green grass and vast forests of healthy green trees. Behind him, he made the outlines of yet another path that twisted and turned on the outskirts of the forest, before disappearing some great distance into it. To the far left of the path, Arthur could make out large green mounds that protruded as shallow man-made mountains. Walking paths of brown dirt separated the mounds like many intertwined spider webs and at the base of every one of those little mountains was peaked a sword, a small token of each man and the glory that had accompanied his life.

Arthur's gaze stopped on one particular grave whose mound had yet to turn green in the freshness of newly turned earth, for at its side a man sat facing the grave with his knees near his chest and his arms keeping them in place. He was dressed in a loose black tunic and matching trousers. Long black curly hair decorated every inch of his head and a dark circle seemed to encircle his mouth. Twin swords rested on his back and crossed each other at the midpoint of the soldier's back. His face was downcast but in the pride of a knight, no tear had moistened his face.

"Arthur Castus!" Arthur turned away from the solemn man to see who was calling his name. A man in a golden tunic was making his way up the stairs of the wall. His blond hair in fact, complied very nicely with the tunic, for his hair was long and pulled back in a half ponytail to restrain it from his face. Even the ruffles that surrounded his chin were blond and almost invisible in the morning light. A sword rested at his side, but the sheath was decorated in all those brave beasts that had decorated the iron gates of the city of Rome.

"I am Panador Aurelius, commander of the Sarmatian knights here." Arthur slowly shook the man's hand.

"It's my understanding that I am to take your place," Arthur commented.

"Indeed, I've served Rome faithfully for twenty years here, and I look forward to returning to the city." The two men fell in silence and Arthur once again found his gaze turning to the man in the graveyard. As all people enviably do, Panador's gaze shifted to find that of Arthur's and he found himself sighing.

"He is a grieving man, Lancelot. A knight dear to his heart fell in battle not four days ago, but was not buried till the rain settled to a drizzle just yesterday. He however is strong, as you will see is true of most of the men," Panador mused. Arthur was sure that was true, but even from the great distance that separated Lancelot from their position on the wall he was positive that he saw more than sadness in that knight's eyes. There was anger.

"Come, you must be tired from you journey, I will show you to your chambers." Arthur followed Panador down the steps of the wall, and Lancelot as a result, quickly disappeared from his view. The vision of the man in the stocks however, only grew stronger in Arthur's mind.


	3. The Roman Knight

**A/N**: Thank you Lancey, Freakazoid, Camreyn, and camlann for reviewing. I'm hoping to see more names soon!

**Camreyn**: Don't worry, I plan I getting rid of the stiffness. Arthur will not be so formal with his knights.

**Disclaimer**: Right, umm, don't be confused, I did put this on the first chapter it is just uh, invisible. Right, invisible.

Chapter 3

It was evening before Arthur found himself raised from his chambers. The few hours of sleep he had actually did much to revive him of the three days of sleep he lost. Arthur awoke to find the room almost completely dark with a few burning embers in the fireplace to reflect dim shadows on the wall.

He had fallen in bed with his black tunic on, but his silver helmet glimmered slightly in the reflection of the fire. Excalibur never left his side. In the darkness, Arthur somehow managed to find the door without overturning any items that rested on the floor of his chamber. The hallway, he found, was lit more significantly. Fresh white candles that had little shrinkage in their heights performed their duties effectively. From where he stood in the hallway, Arthur could make out the distance sounds of the laughter of men and the clumsy clanging of glasses.

Arthur followed the hallway down to the room that Panador had pointed out as his own. The distance in between was filled with many large wooden doors on either side, most likely they were doors that hid the lives of the knights. Arthur finally stopped at the door at the end of the hall and knocked. Arthur heard Panador's voice clearly from within and he opened the door in response.

"Ah, Arthur, welcome. You have rested well, I hope."

"Yes, the accommodations are more than what I need," Arthur complimented.

"Glad to hear it," Panador answered happily as he took a seat in a large chair covered in the fur of some unknown creature. The room was furnished much more gloriously than Arthur's own with a large ornamental fireplace, two large clothed chairs, a desk that rested near the back wall and a king-sized bed stuffed with straw. Arthur ignored these unnecessary luxuries and addressed Panador directly.

"I wish to meet the men," Arthur declared.

"Of course, that can be arranged. When would be convenient for you?"

"As soon as possible," Arthur answered.

Panador raised a golden eyebrow. "May I inquire why there is such haste?"

"Training purposes. The sooner the better."

"Ah, I see," Panador said nodding somewhat uncertainly. Arthur's driven desire to jump into work unnerved him somewhat. "Well, I assure you they are thoroughly trained."

"I do not doubt that. It's my own preference, I suppose," Arthur said looking into the fireplace. It was taught to Arthur long ago, that the extent of a knight's abilities were nothing if he knew not how to fight for all of his comrade's lives over his own.

"You are a curious man, Arthur," Panador said standing up from the chair and walking over to him. "Very diligent in Roman beliefs, as I once was." Panador looked deep into Arthur's eyes. "Unfortunately, you will discover as I have that the will of these knights is not for Rome. It's for themselves and their homeland. Their commonalities rest in their distaste for me, and the empire I stand for, but they do not sit in dark corners like women do and whisper the magnitude of their hatred. They keep to themselves. You cannot break a knight of his worn ways, Arthur."

Arthur met Panador's gaze with disgust. It wasn't that hard for Arthur to discover why the band of knights would not look up to this man. He'd given up on his men a long time ago. It was no wonder that the knight for whom Lancelot had been in morning died when there had been no one to watch his back in battle.

"I'm afraid I don't share your views, Panador. Tell me, how many men originated in your company?" Arthur demanded.

"Fifty strong Sarmatian men," Panador answered proudly.

"And how many of those men remain?" Panador frowned.

"Five years have passed—" Panador attempted to justify what Arthur assumed was going to be a much lower number.

"How many!" Arthur demanded harshly.

"Thirty," Panador answered.

"You've lost twenty men in five years," Arthur hissed. "Four days of brutal battle and only two of the Sarmatian cavalry were lost! Do you know why—"

"How dare you question my command! You have yet to even experience this life outside of Rome! You don't know what kind of dangers we have faced!" Panador yelled, his face turning red.

"Do you know why so few of those men were lost?" Arthur asked.

"You don't know—" Panador began.

"Do you know why so few of those men were lost?" Arthur repeated. "Because they trusted not only each other, but their leader. I'm aware that these men are from distant conquered lands, and I do not plan on asking for their loyalty to Rome if they wish not to give it. All I ask is that they grow to trust me as much as they will grow to trust each other. There's no reason why a man should be singled out of his cavalry because he's a Roman, and I'm sorry to see that you were."

By this time Panador was furious. If the heat of his anger could be expressed in a visual form outside of his deadly expression to kill, Arthur was sure he would have seen it. "You do not even know my men," Panador seethed through clenched teeth as he referred to the knights as his own possession for the first time since Arthur had met him.

"If they did not trust me, I would have not remained in leadership this long."

"I'm afraid you're confusing trust and respect," Arthur said quite calmly as if he didn't take notice to Panador's penetrating stares. "Your men respected the authority Rome gave you, but never did they trust you."

"You bastard!" Panador finally yelled. "You haven't even met my men and you're describing their feelings to me! Your words aren't worth their noise to my ears."

Arthur grabbed Panador's arm tightly and loomed over him making him rage over their equal heights. "I don't have to know them," Arthur growled. "I could see it in that mourning knight's eyes. My words are there. They speak truthfully there, and probably in the eyes of every other knight under your command." Arthur released the man and Panador shrugged violently making it seem as if he had escaped Arthur's clasp, but no man could turn away from Arthur when he addressed him with full sincerity until Arthur said so.

Panador could find no words, but his pride made him believe that Arthur Castus would find that all his talk was beautiful philosophically, but never could he apply his beliefs on the knights. Arthur would soon find out for himself, he believed.

"I would like to meet with your knights, if you please," Arthur requested, reminding Panador that the reason he had come wasn't for this petty argument. He also made sure to give the implication that the men were still under Panador's command.

"I will summon the men for you," Panador said with a crooked smile. "The sooner I get away from this wall, the better. Just remember, they are your men now."

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Arthur found himself arriving to an empty fortress hall. The room was forged from stone similar to the wall itself. Thick candles hung from iron torches on the wall and were protected by thin globes of glass. Two long polished tables filled the space of the room. Arthur guessed that twenty-five men would fit at one table and twenty-six at the other, for a large ornamented chair sat at the head of the table to his right. Arthur assumed that was where Panador would sit.

Just looking at the long tables Arthur found that he despised them. Every knight was separated a long distances from the other and none of the knights could speak easily from table-to-table. Not to mention that the ornamented chair at the head of the table immediately established superiority over the rest of the chairs. That was Panador's way, not Arthur's.

The large wooden door opened and knights suddenly began strolling in. They never said a word, but took to giving Arthur cold glares and looks of mistrust. After Panador's treatment of them, Arthur wasn't surprised.

Knights flowed in for the next few minutes, each taking assigned seats at the tables, leaving many seats empty for those who were no longer with them. Lancelot, the knight Arthur had seen earlier, was one of the last to arrive, and his attitude towards Arthur was not distinguishable from the rest of the knights as Arthur expected, but he also saw more in Lancelot than some of the other men. What it was however, Arthur could not place exactly.

The arrival of Panador finally started the gathering.

"Knights," he addressed the group. "I apologize for disturbing your festivities, but my replacement has arrived. Rome has sent this man, Arthur Castus, to take charge of Hadrian's Wall and of your training. I will leave you in his hands," Panador said stepping to the back wall and allowing Arthur to take command, but not without taking some pleasure in some of the looks directed at Arthur.

Arthur stood confidently in front of the large group, however. He allowed his eyes to gaze into every single pair of the knight's eyes as he gazed and took to remembering faces so that when the time came, he could easily give the faces their corresponding names.

"I asked, Panador to call this meeting so that introductions could be spared when training begins tomorrow." Arthur paused as he walked down the center between the two tables, his arms behind his back.

"Speak up! Can't hear you!" Arthur turned and looked down to near the end of the table to his left as laughter filled the room. There, a large beefy man sat with only a fuzz of hair on his head chuckling at his own joke. A mug in his left hand sloshed spits of ale onto the table as he laughed. He heard another knight congratulating the man and addressing him as Bors. Arthur believed the name fit the man quite well.

As the laughter began to subside Arthur strode over to the knight nearest him, who had thick strawberry blond hair but a face almost as soft as a child's. The axe that was next to him however spoke a different story. Quietly Arthur whispered into the knight's ear, and the knight gave him a look of surprise.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded, but Arthur didn't answer. Everyone was silent by now and was looking on with interest at the exchange between Arthur and the knight.

"Would you knights please rise and move away from the table?" Arthur asked gesturing to everyone at the table on his left. The knights looked at each other in confusion but slowly did what Arthur asked. Meanwhile, Arthur made gestures to the knight with the axe at a certain distance of the table before stepping back himself. The knight looked hesitantly back at Arthur as if he was expecting him to change his mind, but Arthur just waited patiently.

Almost in slow motion the knight brought his axe up over his head and brought it down on the table where Arthur had first gestured. Panador's eyes shot up in horror as he watched a nice clean split divide a section of the table. The knight then brought his axe down a few feet away from his previous cut. The whole room watched as the small section of table collapsed from the force of the cut and created a hug hole in the center of the table.

"If you would just move that bottom section up to this one, Bors, you'd find it much easier to hear." Bors didn't move. No one did. Everyone in the room found it unbelievable what Arthur had just done. Unknowingly to Arthur, one knight with black hair almost as dark as night and ornamented with rivers of braids smirked to himself. He had understood Arthur Castus the moment he had stepped into the room and had found everyone else's response to him quite amusing, though he portrayed nothing on the outside.

"All right, if you all wish to stand," Arthur said turning his back and heading to the front of the hall once again. "Training will commence at first light tomorrow. Have your horses tacked along with your weapons and armor on. We are finished, knights, enjoy your night." The squeaks of chairs being pulled back against the stone floor filled the room as knights stood up and began to leave. In the process no one said a word and the table was left untouched.

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Bors's figure stirred the bench seat as his large form landed heavily against the wood. A fresh mug of ale was in his hand. Lancelot had seen him around but knew little about him. He did know that Bors had a liking for beer that almost matched his lust. With that said, it wasn't surprising that Bors had found passion with the woman, Vanora, who dispensed his alcohol. In fact, Bors was to be expecting his fourth child soon. Lancelot watched, as Bors looked back at Vanora whose overly large stomach caused her hand to rest tiredly against the counter.

"I'll be expecting my third soon," Bors said proudly turning back to the knights at the table.

"Fourth, Bors," Mace, one of the younger knights pointed out. His family lived near a major river in Sarmatia and had made much money through trade. Bors seemed to be doing a mental count in his head, and shrugged off the realization that Mace was right. "Maybe if the drinking stopped so would the children."

"Stop drinking?" Silas asked incredulously. "If Bors were to stop drinking, I believe he'd die. All he needs to do is find a less—fertile woman." The knights at the table laughed.

"Yeah, tell us Bors, what is it that Vanora has that another doesn't?" Mace demanded.

Bors made a motion for everyone to gather into the middle like it was a big secret. Once Bors was sure everyone was listening, he said, "Moves, she's got moves." Bors nodded seriously for a moment before he burst out laughing and everyone joined him.

Lancelot normally would have joined them as well, but he wasn't in the mood. In fact, Bors was doing much to ignite his irritation.

"You're all talk aren't you, Bors?" Lancelot scoffed from the other end of table. "Your words hold as much truth in them as those of a Saxon," Lancelot spat, not even caring that the room became more silent as Lancelot raised his voice. "I think we all saw proof of that when you stood up against Arthur." Bors stood up angrily.

"Go on, keep talking, and I'll pull every black curl from your head," Bors threatened.

"They're all words, Bors," Lancelot pointed out with a grin.

"Lancelot!" Lancelot didn't even have to turn to recognize Gawain's voice. He kept his eyes focused on Bors who reached unsteadily for his sword.

"I'll show you words," Bors growled as he pulled his sword from his sheath. Lancelot removed his and just as the two were going to make their first hit, their was a loud clang as their swords hit the side of a large broadsword.

"That's enough," the man with the broadsword said as he forced the swords up in order to separate them. Lancelot thought he recognized the man to be Dagonet, a quiet man who normally kept to himself. Why he had decided to get involved Lancelot was unsure, but he didn't care, he just wanted to get out of there. With one last look at Bors he walked out of the tavern.

"Lancelot!" Gawain caught up with him not far from the exit and pulled Lancelot to a stop. Lancelot shrugged him away. "What the bloody hell was that all about?"

"He was annoying me," Lancelot said not meeting Gawain's eyes.

"That he is, but never has it struck you to fight him before," Gawain implored. Lancelot remained silent and Gawain sighed. "You will not talk to me about your feelings, I will not request that of you, but no one is going to put up with that kind of attitude, Lancelot." Lancelot didn't reply, he simply turned away from his friend and headed towards the stables. Once inside he walked over to the nearest haystack and found himself picking up the bale and hurling it with full force at the nearest stall. The horse inside whinnied nervously until Lancelot tiredly decided to sit down on the bales of hay, letting the sadness overcome him.

He missed Toltheon desperately. Gawain was as good of a friend as a knight could ask for, but Toltheon was the only one Lancelot felt he could talk to. He had known that on the outside Lancelot was much like the other knights: loud, drunk, and happy to take a chance at any attractive woman that might look his way. For some reason though, it wasn't as fun any more, for Toltheon was dead, and nothing Gawain or even the new commander, Arthur, could do anything to change that.


	4. Training Day

**A/N: **Thank you Miggyrow, Tri Lorian, Camreyn, True luv waits, Romilly McAran, dmitchell1974, Lancey and tootsie for your reviews. Please keep reading!

**  
Romilly McAran**: You made some excellent observations, some I was aware of, and some I was not. First, I know that it takes much more than four days to travel from Rome to Britain. For the sake of the story and the establishment of the Arthur's transition from Rome to Britain, I decided to shorten the time frame. Second, I don't believe that I'm portraying Arthur to be that naïve. Yes, Arthur's mother was British and his father was Roman, and he is Roman by choice, but there is nothing conclusive about how long Arthur was in Britain and how long he was in Rome. The ideas I'm trying to present is that Arthur's time away from Britain has made him forget what life was like for the conquered people of Rome. After all, the movie is partly based on Arthur's misconception of Rome. Arthur believes that every man is born free and has the right to free will, but the Roman view on things is that every man is born as a servant to Rome, and just as Alecto and Lancelot point out, Arthur's version of Rome does not exist. Finally, I'm know Galahad and Gawain are the general pairings for close friends, and that's seen more in this chapter, but my two favorite characters are Gawain and Lancelot, so I decided to focus on their friendship a little more than Galahad's and Gawain's. Thank you for submitting your review, I never want my readers to get the wrong idea about what I'm trying to say.

Chapter 4

Spirals of dawn came early to Lancelot the next morning. The blackness of the night sky had just begun to fade into a navy blue so that dark shadows were now more defined. The large crescent hole in the sky began to loose its brightness as it slipped down to the western horizon and morning crept into being.

Lancelot once again found himself in the stable, as he and a few other knights began tacking their horses. The stable was just a breath away from silence, disturbed by the subtle ringing of chain mail and iron stirrups gently clicking against the saddle. As the sun began to make its way closer and closer to the eastern horizon, the sound of chatter and the movements of the knights began to increase. Bors as usual, entered the stable with a hand to his forehead as if trying to rub away the previous night's binge. He made some comment about it being too bloody early as he searched for his horse's tack.

Gawain had arrived not long after Lancelot, but said nothing to him. He had taken to chatting to one of the younger knights, Galahad. Galahad never liked to speak of their work. He was the kind of knight who believed that this life would just be able to be forgotten once the time came for them to be free men. If anything, they were probably talking about Galahads latest woman seeing as how Galahad's looks weren't so dissimilar to Lancelot's, it wasn't hard for the young knight to find company for an evening.

Dagonet had been quietly sitting in the corner testing the sharpness of his broadsword before Bors had entered the stable. With little comment to Bors himself, Dagonet proceeded to help him tack his horse, but in Bors's hangover state, there was little complaint from him.

"Good morning," a voice boomed from the stable doorway. Arthur Castus stood with his own chain mail on with a black tunic and Excalibur at his side. Some of the knights turned and waited for him to continue, others proceeded to tack their horses as if Arthur had yet to arrive.

"We will proceed to the front field and commence our training there. Any questions?" No one said a word. Arthur gave a quick look around the room before leaving.

"Training? Again?" Galahad sputtered in frustration as he mounted his horse. "These Romans are efficient in the art of time wasting."

"What are you complaining about?" Gawain yelled back as he too mounted his horse. "You need all the help that is offered you."

Galahad glared a Gawain. Gawain just smiled as he trotted out of the stable. "We'll see who needs help the next time my bow saves your ass in battle!" Galahad yelled as he trotted out of the stable after Gawain.

Lancelot ignored the banter as he mounted his horse. Subconsciously, he found his eyes shifting over to where another knight, Tristan, who was already sitting on his mount, looking directly at Lancelot. There were many feelings that were cast from Tristan's eyes, but not all of them were readable. Being unreadable was actually one of Tristan's specialties next to his lack of fear at being the scout for the knights when they were traveling in dangerous areas where there was a high risk of an attack by Woads.

Tristan suddenly kicked his horse and followed the other knights out of the stable, but to Lancelot, it was almost like the knight's eyes had never left him.

It took at least ten minutes following Lancelot's departure for all the knights to assemble onto the grassy field in front of the wall. Arthur was there waiting, now mounted on a brilliant white stallion who pawed at the ground somewhat anxiously as they stood still. After Arthur was assured that everyone had arrived; he addressed the group for the second time that morning.

"I have no doubt in the skills gifted to you," Arthur began, "and I make this meeting not to reassure myself that you know how to use them. A battlefield doesn't need to be summarized. We've all seen it." Lancelot felt his fingers grip more tightly on his reins. When he looked up at Arthur who had begun walking his horse back and forth in front of the group.

"But a battle isn't fought for each individual man in the company. We are fighting it together, and we must address our skills to such an idea. The goal for the next week will to become familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of your fellow knights. Once you are aware of them, you will not only know how to improve them, but recognize when it maybe necessary for another knight to step in."

"Bors can't piss standing up, does that mean we have to help him?" Silas whispered to Galahad.

Galahad smiled. "Only when he's drunk."

Silas rolled his eyes. "That means all the time, huh?"

"We will not be training to harm one another, to make amends of petty arguments," Arthur said strongly. Lancelot felt his eyes shift briefly in Bors's direction, but when they returned to their place, Arthur's eyes were upon him filled with warning. Apparently, secrets were hard to come by, especially in public places.

"We will focus on control, swordsmanship, and the analysis of the movements of your foe and of the other men. Even the most capable men cannot fight all their battles alone."

Arthur concluded his speech with the division of the men. Sixteen men were left to find pairs to begin sword practice. Such a group left Galahad and Tristan, and Lancelot and Bors as pairs. The rest of the men were left to target practice. A section of the grounds had been set up with eight targets for ground practice, but another section also had eight targets for practice on horseback. Gawain and Dagonet were left with the rest of the knights for this form of practice.

There was no whistle to be blown or bell to be rung to signal practice. The knights started as soon as they were assigned to their stations. It never mattered whether or not the men thought a point to the training. Arthur had stated the purpose and as knights, it was their duty to put faith in them. It was always the quickest and most efficient way to keep Romans and Sarmatians happy.

Throughout the field there were sounds of swords clanging, the strings of bows being plucked, and a continuous rhythmic patter of horse feet. Arthur sat on his horse and observed. The knights, he noticed immediately, were skilled. They each had their own established rhythms with their swords and a control that fluently established grace and beauty. The archers, though some of course with more skill than others, never failed at least to hit the target when that, even on the ground, was a hard skill for many Roman soldiers. Arthur, however, assumed that these skills would be evident amongst the men.

He found himself focusing on their control and the actions in their body that showed them that they were aware of their surroundings. In some, he could watch the way some of the knights' bodies would give an almost undetectable search around them before they moved away from a probing sword. Others he noticed were more focused on what was in front of them, whether that was a fault of the exercise or the fault of the knight, Arthur couldn't tell, but for the sake of future battles, he hoped it was only the exercise.

Meanwhile, Galahad was not at all happy with his partner. He sent an obvious glare in Tristan's direction, but Tristan met Galahad's gaze with peace and confidence. Galahad mistrusted Tristan. He was not at all surprised that Tristan had turned death into an art, but that didn't mean he had to like it. To Galahad, the swiftest road to end battle was the road he wished to take. The less he could remember of these years of service, the better.

Galahad drew his sword, and Tristan drew his own in silence. He swung the blade in a quick vertical circle at his side, and then waited. Galahad narrowed his eyes and made the first strike, a move Tristan had been expecting. Tristan blocked it easily before counter-attacking and aiming low in the stomach.

"The goal is not to kill," Galahad said through clenched teeth as Tristan's attack caused him to take a step back. Galahad took his sword and swung it hard around to the left.

"I know," Tristan responded, meeting Galahad's sword. Their swords met in a stalemate of strength, as neither sword would separate from the other. "The goal is to live."

Tristan pushed harder on Galahad's sword until the swords circled around each other and separated.

"But how does life thrive when you work hard to see that it dies?" Galahad demanded.

"You misunderstand me," Tristan answered as their swords clashed again. "The world is perfect, but men make it evil."

"So you take it upon yourself to remove them from it?" Galahad asked sarcastically. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead as the sun rose higher in the sky, and loose tendrils of his curly hair began to give him wet slaps in the face as he moved. As Galahad watched the way Tristan moved, Galahad had the feeling that he was putting much more effort into this fight than Tristan was. He'd seen Tristan fight in battle, and it was with a liquid fluency that Tristan maneuvered the weapon at a deadly foe. A fluency that was not completely absent, but not completely whole-hearted either. He did not want Tristan to kill him, but he also did not want him to be holding back as a form of pity to an unworthy opponent.

"Tell me this, would you not be at peace with the world had the Romans not appointed you this service?" Galahad didn't answer and Tristan didn't expect one. "Men breed hatred," Tristan began as he suddenly maneuvered his sword away from Galahad's. Before Galahad could do anything to stop him, Tristan had run the sharp edge of his blade in a shallow cut across Galahad's wrist. "And hatred leads to destruction." Galahad stared in surprise at Tristan, as Tristan sheathed his sword and walked to his horse, mounted, and headed for the archery fields.

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Lancelot easily dodged the slash of Bors's sword as he maneuvered his twin swords, so that the left sword switched from defending and attacking, and his right sword continually acted on the offense.

"Your sword works as slow as your feeble mind," Lancelot taunted. Bors's sword made a move towards Lancelot's left side that Lancelot blocked after making a complete circle of his right sword around his head.

"Yeah?" Bors asked, "'Cause it seems to me that it doesn't take two swords to make a point."

"And what point might that be Bors?"

"Making the pretty boy look scary."

Lancelot laughed. "So I look scary now, do I?"

"Yeah, as scary as a bastard baby with a knife. More likely to kill himself than somebody else." Lancelot's sly smile drooped slightly as Bors insulted his skills.

"My looks must deceive you then, for I assure you, I can kill you quite easily," Lancelot growled.

"Kill me then, if you get the chance. Don't let my sword stop you," Bors shot back. Lancelot moved his swords in a deadly slice across Bors's stomach that in most cases would have ended his fight with his opponent almost immediately. Bors however, managed to get out of harms way when his sword met with Lancelot's in an effective block.

"You cannot kill a man on your own side," Bors assessed. "For there is no profit."

Lancelot's eye became narrow slits. "There is no profit in fighting the enemy, for Rome's enemy is not the enemy of a Sarmatian." His voice increased in intensity as he spoke.

"I give you no argument," Bors admitted. The intensity of both their attacks lessened as the depression of fighting for a land not their own settled upon them like a never-ending plague upon their lives.

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The training continued relentlessly until early evening, when the knights were finally allowed to head for the tavern for food and drinks. The tavern quickly became the scene of much noise as orders for food and drink were being shouted out above conversations to a slightly frazzled Vanora, who was trying to take orders and remember who said them.

"Sit down and take a load off," Bors said, grabbing Vanora by the waist with one arm and pulling her into his lap.

"Not now! I've got work to do," she replied as she squirmed out of his reach and continued serving the tables.

"Well I believe I learned much from today's session, what do you think boys?" Gawain asked, his voice thick with sarcasm as he took a seat at the table with Bors and Dagonet.

"It was a bloody waste of time and everyone here knows it, right Dag?" Bors jostled Dagonet's right arm as he spoke.

"Our Roman leader is strong in the beliefs that are not our job to question," Dagonet responded.

"What the hell you talking about, Dag?" Bors demanded, giving him a confused look. "Whose side are you on?"

"I do not believe there to be multiple sides," Dagonet answered. "He teaches us how to keep our lives on the battlefield and yet you question his desire for us to protect each other."

"It's all a Roman ploy," Galahad said, suddenly speaking up. He was standing behind the table, his back was against a large wooden pillar and his hand was wrapped with a white bandage. "Even at Hadrian's Wall the selflessness of a Roman cannot be conceived as anything but hard work for their own gain."

"For most Romans, yes, I believe your conception is right, but what would be the harm in putting faith in Arthur?" Dagonet asked. Bors, Gawain, and Galahad looked at each other before Galahad volunteered an answer.

"Only our lives."


	5. Blood Tears

**A/N**: Thank you Camreyn, NightAngel, True luv waits, dmitchell1974 and MissBubbles for reviewing! I hope to see more for the next chapter!

**True luv waits**: Don't worry, the knights will start trusting Arthur more soon. It's still going to take a little more time, but it will happen, I promise!

**NightAngel**: Lancelot is meant to seem sad because he's lost a really close friend. Now that Toltheon is gone, he's going to have to reach out to the other knights. Meanwhile, he's being hit with the new commander at the same time, and with that comes the difficulty of readjusting, that's really why he's meant to seem sad. This story won't end without some Lancelot antics, I guarantee!

Chapter 5

As weary as his muscles may have been to the many hours they had spent fighting, Lancelot's mind would not allow him the gift of sleep. His thoughts traveled to Toltheon, Arthur, Panador, Gawain and Tristan; any person or event that his mind decided to recall at such a subconscious state. As a result, he found himself wandering the halls, and going past rooms that even at this hour were still and empty. As he made his way down one hall, he heard indistinct murmurs that seemed to belong to a single voice.

Without the intention of eavesdropping, Lancelot followed the sounds more because it allowed for the concentration of something other than his own thoughts. He soon found himself in front of a large wooden door, whose ornaments really were no different from his own. The door was partly open so that the dancing candle that lit the room, cast an inconsistent glow of light into the hallway. Lancelot quietly maneuvered himself so that he had a straight view into the room, where he saw Arthur, dressed without his armor in a simple black tunic, kneeling to the side of his bed, his hands clasped before him on the bed so that when he spoke, his voice was slightly muffled.

"Heavenly Father, I give thanks to those knights you have given me with the faith of protecting their lives as well as you have protected my own. I will not fail your will. I understand how hard it is for their trust to be given, and I hope they will see I'm eligible to receive it." Arthur paused and let his eyes droop slowly closed before continuing.

"I ask of you only to ease the suffering of Lancelot, a knight in mourning." Lancelot raised his eyebrows at the mention of his name. "It was your will to take his companion into your own hands, and to that decision I leave no room for questions, but ask that you help see him through his grief. In the name of the Holy Father, amen." Arthur's eyes slowly opened, taking a moment to focus on his hands that were still clasped on the bed before standing. With movements intended for sleep, Arthur headed over to the lit candles within the room and began blowing them out before heading back to the bed.

As he gently lay himself down on the bed, he found his eyes shifting to the door. Since he had blown out the candles, the bright light had disappeared leaving the dimmer hallway light to filter into the room. Whether it was a trick of the night or something was really there, Arthur couldn't be sure, but some movement had caused a quick dimming of the light when a possible something passing the sliver of open door had blocked the incoming light. There was no way for Arthur to be sure, but he had a feeling that his eyes hadn't been mistaken, and that the movement hadn't been caused by anything but a person.

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The next morning was much the same as the previous day's except that it was nowhere as bright. The sky was so dark that it took even the brightest signs of morning a long time to distinguish day from night. The threat of rain was evident, and the gray clouds did everything to affect the mood of the knights. The gray clouds may have brought cooler temperatures, but they didn't make happier knights.

Arthur gave no pep talk that morning. He jumped right in to assigning everyone to their stations without formalities to anyone. Fighting partners and archers were switched up so that everyone could have a chance to practice at a new station with someone different.

Around mid-morning a steady rain began to fall all over the field. Among the knights, there seemed to be a general wishing that no one voiced out loud, to call it quits for the day so they could head for the tavern. It wouldn't necessarily provide a dry atmosphere, but it would serve to provide the knights with a rainy-day beer and of course, hot food. The knights however, were greeted with no such gift. Arthur kept them fighting with no physical reaction to the rain whatsoever.

Lancelot was angrily trying to keep his black curls from blocking his vision as he advanced with his twin swords towards Silas when the almost silent advance of an arrow began to cut through the falling rain till it hit the ground and landed at Lancelot's feet. It didn't even shudder as it dug a hole easily into the wet ground and stayed there like a purposeful marker. It only took a quick once over of the arrow for Lancelot to recognize that it wasn't one of theirs. The shaft had been noticeably carved by hand and been given feathers that belonged to birds the resided on the branches of birds most commonly found in the deeper parts of the forests; the areas where Woads resided.

One look at Silas and Lancelot knew that he had made the connection too. "We're under attack!" Silas yelled, hoping to get Arthur's attention as he headed for his horse. Arthur's head shot up towards the sound of the shout before quickly turning his gaze back to the woods. Unfortunately, the rain and clouds did nothing to provide a clear view, but he could make out moving bodies in numbers fit for a small army, heading towards the group. Arthur instantly took action.

"Archers to the front!" He ordered in the direction of the practice field. The rest of the knights were assembling in a scattered group so as to make for difficult targets. Suddenly, another wave of arrows made its way over the group of knights. As they hit, some hit their targets, and knights were falling from their horses temporarily stunned.

The archers who had now moved to the front of the group were proving to be deadly aims, but the never-ending supply of Woads still persisted towards the knights. Arthur glanced over at the knights and saw some of the men fall. His eyes looked slightly concerned, but a certain angry fire also turned his focus back towards the oncoming towards.

"You will follow my lead and we will meet their attack," Arthur called, drawing Excalibur from its sheath.

"And meet the onslaught of their arrows? We'll be killed," Lancelot protested.

"We'll keep this attack away from the wall. No more people need to be involved in this battle," Arthur argued turning his back on Lancelot to focus on the attack.

The archers, who weren't on horseback cleared the ground in front of the knights upon Arthur's order, but kept up a constant rhythm of arrows as they shot from the sides. With a deep breath, Arthur dug his heels into the side of his horse, and leapt with his horse in the moment of excitement as he took off down the field. The knights behind him quickly followed him, removing their weapons as they moved.

The collision came quick as both sides came running full force towards one another. The knights had spread out the length of the group of Woads as they rode so that when they collided, they could cover the most ground.

Lancelot felt his sword meet resistance in the form of arms, chest, head and neck as he rode deeper into the group, but he held fast to his sword and as he passed them the resistances ceased to exist. As knights and Woads fought one another, rain mixed with blood that almost seemed to cleanse each fallen body in a preparation for death.

Tristan and Galahad had carried their bows to the front lines and together, were effectively minimizing the amount of arrows that were falling around the knights. Bors had been knocked off his horse by a Woad, so that half of his body was covered in mud that was slowly melting off because of the rain. The Woad that had unseated him was now lying face down in the mud, unmoving.

Arthur meanwhile, had dismounted and found himself engaged in a tight struggle with a Woad carrying an axe. Using his peripheral vision, he scanned the fighting grounds for the condition of his knights. At a quick glance, he could see that his men were doing a good job holding their own. As soon as the Woad gave him the opportunity, Arthur shoved Excalibur into his stomach before letting the sides of his blade graze the man's rib cage as his sword was freed. As Arthur watched him fall, he suddenly caught sight of Lancelot from across the field.

He had dismounted from his horse and drawn both his swords. He moved with expert precision, fighting three Woads around him, when his left foot suddenly slid out from under him as he made a backward step away from an attack and fell onto his back into the mud. The two remaining Woads were quickly on him. One had an axe, the other a sword, and they both advanced onto Lancelot.

Arthur began running across the field to help him, but Woads kept blocking his path. Arthur watched in between fights as Lancelot suddenly swung out one of his swords so that his collided with the leg of one of the Woads.

The sudden attack put the Woad off balance, and he began to fall forward with his sword, towards Lancelot's body. Lancelot was forced to roll out of the Woad's way, but as he rolled, the other Woad followed him and was ready with his axe. Mud blocked his eyesight, but in between quick and blurred blinks, Lancelot saw the last Woad, and was swinging his sword wildly around him, hoping to cause the Woad to back away.

Arthur, realizing that he would not be able to reach Lancelot before the Woad made his fatal strike, looked desperately around for someone who might be able to get to Lancelot before he could. He soon spied Galahad getting ready to nock his bow.

"Galahad!" Arthur shouted loudly over the chiming of swords. "Lancelot!" It took a moment for Galahad to locate where the voice was coming from, but as soon as he did, he seemed to understand the command as he searched the battlefield for Lancelot. Arthur watched in between his own fights with the Woads as Galahad's shot sailed in a perfect line towards the Woad who was still towering over Lancelot and having an easier time avoiding Lancelot's wild attacks than Lancelot had avoiding the Woad's. The arrow hit him in the right side of his chest, and he fell without a sound, air rushing out of his mouth due to a punctured lung.

Then, with the speed with which the battle had initiated, it ended as a deep but purposeful horn caused the remaining Woads to freeze in the midst of battle. The sound seemed to originate from the canopy of trees and in a game of volleyball; it reverberated back and forth from the trees to the Wall. A second short but more urgent blast, suddenly had the Woads receding away from the wall and heading back towards the forest from which they had emerged. It was an odd scene to see a battle end so quick, and a large group of Woads retreat so readily back into the forest.

"Let them go!" Arthur ordered the archers to stop the fews who continued to fire during the Woad's retreat. As the last Woad disappeared from sight, Arthur surveyed the field. He saw the majority of those that had fallen were Woads, but their death toll couldn't have been more than forty, which was not many considering how many knights the Woad's had been facing and how short the battle had been. His eyes ended up traveling back to Lancelot, who was slowly getting to his feet as he struggled to wipe mud from his eyes with his own muddy hands.

"Tilt your head to the rain. It should help rinse the mud out," Arthur directed as he came up to Lancelot's side. Being slightly off balance from not being able to see, Lancelot almost made another trip into the mud, but Arthur was able to steady him before he met with that fate again. Once Lancelot had recovered his balance, he pulled away from Arthur's touch.

Lancelot glared at Arthur as much as he could with his eyes squinted in an effort to see through the mud. "I don't need you to attend to me." Arthur looked Lancelot over once more and realizing that Lancelot did not desire his help, he strode away from the knight, in slight agitation. If he wanted to be stubborn, that was his choice.

"Arthur, over here!" Arthur looked up and to the left, and found Gawain calling him over. As soon as he was assured that he had gotten Arthur's attention, he returned to the same squatting position that Galahad was in as they attended to a lone figure lying on the ground. Arthur quickened his pace to a run, till he reached the spot where Galahad and Gawain were.

Silas was lying on the ground with an arrow sticking out on the right side of his body, just above the soft spot of his armpit. Silas's left rested in a c-shape around the arrow in a motion of pain, but without actually touching the arrow. He made no attempt to move his right arm, whether or not he could, it rested limply at his side.

"I'm going to have to remove the arrow," Arthur declared after having examined the wound. Silas gave a pained nod of understanding, as Arthur placed one hand around the arrow. He gently moved the arrow with as much subtlety as he could manage in order to estimate the arrow's depth and angle of entry.

Tristan suddenly appeared at Arthur's side, a piece of cloth in hand. Arthur grabbed the cloth, placed his left hand with the cloth against Silas's shoulder and his right hand back around the arrow. He pulled out the arrow as fast and carefully as he could as Silas's face contorted into an array of muted expressions of pain, managing only a tiny gasp once the arrow had been removed.

Arthur quickly placed the cloth over the wound. "Can your feet carry you to the wall?" Arthur asked as he threw the arrow aside.

"Yes," Silas whispered as his left hand reached for the cloth, and his right remained at his side. Mace and Galahad helped him to his feet and continued on their way to the wall. All Arthur could do was stare at the limp arm as it swung back and forth like a branch high up in a tree swaying as a cradle to the wind.

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The dice were silent that evening. None of the knights could find the heart after Tristan had brought back the news that the arrow had caused damaged to ligaments and muscles within Silas's arm. With no way to keep circulation in the arm, it had to be removed. The notice had caused Lancelot to leave the table and disappear from the eyes of the company for the rest of the evening.

Though not unusual, no one saw Arthur that night either. He, of course, had been informed by Tristan of the news. In the grand scheme of things, becoming maimed in battle was a minor loss; it could always be worst. Arthur really hated that idea.

A man, any man, could be standing in challenge of death's many forms and the only idea to give him relief is that it could be worst. It's not easy telling a man who has just lost the arm that yields his sword in valor and honor of his own defense, that it could have been worst. For among the knights, it's understood that a man who struggles through life receives reverence in death.

Having to look back on the situation, Arthur couldn't see himself going about his attack any differently. The Woads had taken them by surprise, an action that had required Arthur to act diligently in response, but even that assurance did nothing to console his guilt. Silas was one man, who now had to change his life around if he wanted to remain in the service of the knights, for only in death was their contract broken and their freedom granted, at least until they had served out their remaining years.

A more disturbing question began to form in his mind as he mind traced the day's events. As many Woads as were present, Arthur had been expecting a battle that would have left the knights with more casualties, but more pressing was the reasoning behind their attack. The Woads had control of the land north of Hadrian's Wall, and rarely ventured this far South, a fact that left Arthur uneasy. Not to mention that the Woad's had ended the fight not long after having started. Arthur would have to keep his eyes and ears open for rumors in a hope to get to the bottom of this.

Arthur sighed. Tomorrow was going to be difficult, that was to be expected, but it was necessary. It was situations like this that called for the uniting of the men more than ever. Arthur prayed that things would go as smoothly as it possibly could.

5555

The night was dark, for a cloud-full sky that snuffed out many surrounding stars also covered the moon. Lancelot took advantage of the darkness for his own cover as he lead his horse away from the wall at a full-blown gallop. The horse's feet were weightless and left no echoing sound of Lancelot's retreat from the wall.

_He should have listened to me_, Lancelot thought, cursing Arthur's name for Silas's fate. No, Silas hadn't died in battle, but in some situations, this one included, it was better that he had. Silas had lost the arm that had wielded his sword with the strength and fury of an ox. The arm now lost, his body and mind had to rely on the less strong and less certain left arm to be retrained in skill of defense and attack in the same memories as a Sarmatian knight at age nine.

For a knight the retraining was crucial, for the only alternative for not serving the Roman army was death, whether the sword was wielded by the hands of a Roman or Silas's own less skilled left hand.

The training would take time; time that Lancelot was uncertain to whether or not Arthur would grant. The dangers of battle and fighting were no where on Silas's near future, and it was always a question of how long the Romans would allow something that was useless, even temporarily, in their company.


	6. Sad Little Cemetery

**A/N**: Thank you Camreyn and lucillag for reviewing, you input is greatly appreciated. I've also taken the liberty of making this chapter slightly longer than previous chapters. This is probably one of the deepest chapters of anything I've ever written, and all I hoped to gain by saying that was that I hope you enjoy it! And if ends up wondering by the end of this chapter, it's non-slash.

Chapter 6

Gawain awoke early the next morning. It wasn't a mere desire to rise before everyone else, for he was exhausted, but sleep didn't seem willing to grace Gawain with its presence, so he found himself wandering around the Wall. His journey ultimately led him to Silas's room.

Darkened by the shadow's of the early morning, little could be made out of the sleeping knight's form except for the parts of the glaring white bandage on either side of his shoulder that hadn't been darkened by the stains of blood. His eyes were closed and his head rested a slight angle against his left shoulder as if even in the peace of sleep, he couldn't tolerate looking at the limb that he no longer possessed.

Gawain pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat. His attempts to remain silent were soon dashed as the wooden chair slid back a few centimeters as he sat and allowed for a harsh squeak to fill the room. Gawain instantly glanced at Silas, but didn't see him even move. With a sight of relief, he let himself fall back against the back of the chair as he gave no thought to anything in particular and his gaze fastened on his friend.

"If you were this sneaky in battle, I'm sure your head would have been claimed by a Saxon by now." Gawain focused his gaze on Silas's face, surprised to find him awake. It wasn't until after he spoke that Silas took the opportunity to move his head in the direction where Gawain was sitting.

"You of us all know its only luck," Gawain added with a slight smile, happy to see that all of Silas's humor had not been taken along with his arm.

"I never held faith in luck, and look where it brought me," Silas said, his voice dropping off bitterly.

Gawain's grin faded. "How are you doing?"

"I'm bored to say the least, but at this point, I have bigger concerns."

"You're still able to fight, you know," Gawain pressed, believing fighting ability to be one of his more pressing concerns.

"No, _you're_ still able to fight, Gawain," Silas cried, his voice rising slightly. "Not only have I lost my arm, but I've lost the will.

"Tell me, Gawain, can you remember when we first started out? As there were steps in the training, there were equally thoughts of various forms of freedom. After we arrived, the focus was training. The simple satisfaction of young boys being able to wield a sword, a quarter of their weight, kept us preserving because we knew, the sooner training was complete, the sooner we would be delivered the valor of battle. We were naïve then. Our first battle was made up with our own uncertainty. Those who couldn't make their decisions or make them fast enough, fell. We discovered we had the power to preserve life and take it away, a skill we delivered to our enemies to give them freedom, but a skill we could never deliver on our commanders for freedom for ourselves.

"It became a matter of counting battles until the battles finally outnumbered our days of servitude. All we can count on to pass the time are the days not spent slaughtering the people who are so like us. For the hours of battle seem to stretch into as long a field of casualties when the battle finally ends.

"This is what I have to look forward to; starting over to once again relearn all that has already been brought to my attention because that's the only way I can become again what I once was whether in strategy or in strength. I can't see myself submitting myself to this slavery anymore."

"I fear your somber countenance," Gawain finally voiced with concern. "If you think of leaving this life in any form of your choosing, I do not blame you, but your strength is not so hard to find, I believe. Remember, we all have served with equal misgivings of this life. None of us can say with truth that we haven't wanted to leave this life in one form or another, but tell me what good would come of it? Your ultimate death will not alter the Roman ways and another Sarmatian must be submitted in your place eventually. No one said these times were fair, because they're certainly not, but would you not at least like to see your family in flesh before meeting them again in death?"

Silas was silent for a moment as he pondered this. "The Romans have this belief in heaven and hell," Silas said thoughtfully. "I have no faith in it, but it makes me curious. You speak of death and its freedoms, and we've all almost come to believe any life than the life of a slave would be more satisfying, but even in death, how can we be assured that we will be free? For the Romans, a Roman God selects who deserves to have what kind of life after death. How can we be so sure our own gods are not a slave to the Roman God? How can we be so sure that this life we have now, will not exist after death?"

Gawain raised his eyes in surprise. "What has led you to doubt your faith? After all, it wasn't the Roman God who gave you life in battle."

"Aye, but it wasn't my gods who spared me the pain of life if death is to be so forgiving and free. As far as we know, Gawain, the same battle here on earth could exist in faith. Had the pagan gods not been conquered in the same fate as the Sarmatian people centuries ago, who's to say we'd be slaves? Had the pagan gods the strength to fight off the Roman God, wouldn't we now have the strength to end our servitude?" Silas settled back into his pillow and turned his head away from Gawain once again.

"You worry, my friend, of what I intend to do with my life, but even I cannot give you answer. If the same battle is going on in death as in life, I do not know if I want to venture there. But my toleration for this life may outweigh my unknown fate. In death I have only half a chance of being a slave as in life, for if my beliefs are misconstrued, and for the lives of all the men I hope they are, then in death all we have to expect is the blissful freedom that has been so long been denied to us."

6666

Arthur met his men in the front of the wall, at the same time as the previous days. A few of the men straggled in late, more than had arrived late on other days. Whether it was because of exhaustion or defiance, Arthur could not be sure. He scanned his ranks, and besides the obvious absence of Silas, he instantly realized that one black-haired knight was missing. Rather than cause a big scene about it now, Arthur decided he would address the matter later. For he knew the only knight he could possibly get a straight answer was Lancelot himself.

"Knights," Arthur addressed them for the first time since the beginning of training. "I would like to inform those of you who may be unaware of Silas's condition. He's condition has improved greatly, and we hope he'll be able to join us in the near future." Gawain found his hands tightening on the reins as Arthur said this. Arthur had no idea what Silas had told him, and if he had, he may not have been so optimistic.

"But we must continue. Though unusual, the attack yesterday was not so uncommon. Our skills, the skills we have been working on for the days past, still need to be improved upon. Another surprise attack such as that could prove to have much more fatal results." Arthur let the words hang in the air before dismissing the knights to their stations.

"Great speech, huh?" Mace asked, walking alongside Bors, Galahad, and Tristan.

"Inspiring," Bors answered sarcastically as they walked.

"Yeah, he should rethink his plan of attack. He was just as unprepared as we were for an attack," Galahad replied.

"You shouldn't speak of what you don't understand," Tristan spoke up. Bors stopped walking and turned around to face Tristan.

"Why don't you enlighten us, then?" Bors taunted. "Or better yet, tell Silas why he isn't here training with us now."

"He suffered a wound of battle. No more or no less than any of us have endured during battle. He must choose how to accept it."

"Who do you support, Tristan?" Galahad asked finally getting the courage since their sparring match to confront him. "Surely not the Romans?"

"You create a war between Romans and Sarmatians that is needless. I do not support the Romans in their deeds, but I do not declare all Romans to be the same ruthless people. To do that would coincide with that all Romans believe that we are slaves."

"Roman beliefs, eh? What Roman have you met that doesn't consider any man his slave, least of all, Sarmatians?" Bors demanded.

"One Roman gives quite the contrary," Tristan said with an almost half smile. "He does not consider _any _of those people under Roman power to be better than another. Under his eyes, we're equal to all other groups, including Romans."

"No Roman at Hadrian's Wall has yet given us such a perspective," Mace scoffed.

"No?" Tristan asked. "Or is it you have not yet given him a chance? He's the one Roman who has seen us more than slaves, knights, or pagans. His cause may be in the name of Rome, but it's not a Roman cause, and the sooner you recognize his intentions, the better our fate shall be." The three knights seemed doubtful of Tristan's words. They had never heard Tristan either speak so much or speak so favorably of a Roman. Galahad had no idea whether or not the other two knights had any idea of the Roman Tristan spoke of, but he couldn't help find his eyes tracing over the horizon and meeting with Arthur's form across the field.

Tristan looked ready to leave them, when Gawain suddenly showed up astride his horse with a long bow hanging off his shoulder. "Have none of you seen Lancelot?"

"Not since the run-in with the Woads," Mace answered.

"His horse was gone this morning, but I've yet to see him on the field," Gawain said glancing around the field as if expecting him to suddenly appear.

"He was sore last night. He must've headed out to cool down," Mace rationalized, unconcerned.

"Cool down or not, running around alone following an attack by Woads isn't the smartest idea," Galahad spoke up.

"If Lancelot isn't getting himself into trouble than he's dragging _us _into trouble," Bors muttered shaking his head.

"You should put Arthur on awares. He does not yet know that Lancelot isn't within the Wall," Tristan said rationally.

A dark shadow suddenly fell over the group, and they turned to find Arthur himself watching them. "Is everything alright here?" Arthur asked, looking each knight up and down.

"Yes, Sir, but Gawain would like a word," Galahad spoke up. An annoyed look passed briefly from Gawain to Galahad before Gawain addressed Arthur directly.

"There's concern over Lancelot's whereabouts. I found his horse missing this morning, but I have yet to see him amongst us this morning." A flicker of something passed over Arthur's eyes that told Gawain he had already notice Lancelot's lack of attendance, but the news of the missing horse seemed new to him.

"None of you have seen him since evening?" Arthur asked. They all shook their heads no.

"I see. If he doesn't make an appearance before nightfall than alert me immediately." Arthur once again looked them over before trotting away.

"A lot of good that did," Mace said rolling his eyes.

"Arthur, the man who cares for us all, does not even allow the searching for one knight?" Galahad asked, directing the jab at Tristan.

"You've underestimated him. Apparently he's more aware of Lancelot's personality than you are. Lancelot will not remain away long, but when and if he is, is when we should worry."

"He's got to come back sometime, at least for a drink!" Bors said with a grin.

"Yeah, well if Bors indulges on Lancelot's appetite for drink, I claim his women," Galahad said with a laugh.

Gawain shook his head. "I think Bors got the better deal. Even Lancelot has to work for women, and Galahad's scorecard has been lagging."

"Says you," Galahad retorted, but turning slightly read at the truth in Gawain's statement. Tristan watched the banter with disinterest before finally pulling away from the group and heading for the archery fields.

"I think he's hinting something," Gawain said as he watched Tristan walk away.

"It's Tristan, he's always bloody hinting at something. It's rare he just says something straight as it comes," Bors pointed out.

"Either way, he has a point, and a good one at that," Mace stated.

"Which point you talking 'bout now?" Bors asked.

Mace shrugged. "All of them."

6666

The knights didn't have to wait till nightfall to update Arthur on Lancelot's whereabouts. Just as the sun fell into midday, a horse was spotted emerging from the edge of the woods and riding fast towards the group of knights. Even from the great distance that separated them, the knights could tell that it was not a Woad.

As the rider quickly closed the distance, the knights could easily make out Lancelot's confident form, riding relaxed in the saddle to the rhythm of his stead. He kept riding, slowing his pace to a trot as he made his way through the group as if he was searching for someone. Pausing only slightly to look around, he continued his pace till he landed himself in front of Arthur who was currently standing on the ground watching his approach. Even before his horse had come to a complete halt Lancelot swung his legs over in a graceful dismount that placed him on the left side of his horse.

Lancelot began to walk towards Arthur, while simultaneously removing his twin swords from over his shoulders. Arthur kept his ground. He could see the anger in Lancelot's eyes as he approached, but he didn't move his hand to draw Excalibur in his own defense. Arthur did not believe that Lancelot was looking to kill him, and even if he were, he wouldn't do it without Arthur arming himself.

Lancelot took the pleasure meanwhile, of resting a blade on either side of Arthur's neck in a scissor formation. Lancelot's movements had caught the attention of the other knights, and as they formed in an almost enclosed circle around them, some of them thought to draw their swords because they were uncomfortable with the current situation.

"For what purpose do you see need for this, Lancelot?" Arthur asked, his voice calm and his eyes lacking the fear often present in a man at the mercy of death.

"The same purpose that you find necessary to seek out children from their homeland and bear them back to distant lands in chains to prepare them for battle, or more commonly, their death," Lancelot seethed, his normally charming eyes stormy in his inner turmoil of rage.

"I do not have argument with you," Arthur declared. "I believe as you do that your rights as free men have unfairly been denied to you. I support you in your quest to make a point to Rome, but nothing would come of spilling my blood on this ground to aid you. If my words be wrong, may God himself allow you the strength to wield your swords to my demise so that this wrong may be righted in your behalf." Arthur's gaze did not fluctuate from Lancelot's own, and there was much Arthur wanted to bring to the knight's attention, but those were words that he only felt righteous to speak in Lancelot's sole company.

Lancelot had never heard such a proclamation from a Roman. There was no pleading for life in Arthur's eyes and unless Arthur's speech was some sort of strange plea for mercy, Lancelot had the belief that the man's words were heart-spoken. However, the little Lancelot knew about the man wasn't enough for Lancelot to rely on gut-feelings. He was too angry at the results of yesterday's battle and of Toltheon's death to so easily remove his swords.

"You speak with a twist of the tongue!" Lancelot spat. "How can you talk of free men when in birth all men who live in Roman lands are left to be Roman slaves?"

"I do not believe you live in such a state. Every man has the right to free will from birth. Not even Rome can take that power from you."

"Have you not looked around?" Lancelot sneered turning his head around the group as he slowly removed his swords from Arthur's neck. Twisting his swords skillfully at either side in more of a subconscious motion, he advanced on Arthur. Arthur seeing no way to protect himself found himself instinctively removing Excalibur from his resting place at his side. "The will these men before you have is either to die in battle, or to die trying to free themselves from battle. This is their free will."

Lancelot made a jab at Arthur's stomach that Arthur easily blocked. However, Arthur made no move of the offensive as Lancelot continued to maneuver his swords in almost a dance around different areas of Arthur's body, look for that one careless opening.

"Great changes are coming in Rome. The teachings of a great man have been taught to me. I know much of the advantages that come with the understanding of equality," Arthur spoke through the banging of swords.

"Tell me, Arthur, how many men do you know of would stand up for a Sarmatian in his time of need? Would again perform this action in front of the judging eyes of his men who maintain their opposing views?" Lancelot demanded, swinging his left hand and sword to the area slightly below Arthur's knee while maneuvering his right sword in a higher chest shot. Arthur jumped back and forced Excalibur in front of him so that he could brush Lancelot's attack to the side.

"Unfortunately, I cannot vouch for many men, but I can vouch for myself," Arthur said sincerely. At these words, Lancelot's attack stopped, and he paused, looking down. To a misleading observer it would be taken as a reflection of admiration in the intricate design of his sword.

"You speak of one man, Arthur. Many men—many Sarmatians—have fought this land before us with the same misgiving I present you. Their multitude has done nothing to change our conditions." Lancelot suddenly lifted his right blade, and with a rush of strength, shoved it purposefully into the ground. With no other words, Lancelot sheathed his single sword and made way for his horse. The circle parted for him as he made way towards the wall.

Tristan eyes lingered on the sword as a single squall of wind took his words from his mouth and into the trees and beyond. "Free will. May she rest in peace."

6666

The knights returned to their training with a new outlook on their commander. He had pledged himself to his knights, to their rights, and their free will. He had even offered his life for their freedom had God been so gracious to give it. The trust of a man who knew them both so well and so little was hard to come by, and yet there were misgivings among some as to the faith of a Roman.

"You cannot believe that he can be trusted?" Galahad asked his sparring partner, Gawain.

"My conclusion is still unsettled, but I don't see it so unlikely," Gawain replied.

"Never has a Roman shown a desire to help a Sarmatian. Why should we shift our views and believe that Arthur Castus is so different?" Galahad demanded.

"Did you not hear his words?" Dagonet demanded, who was sparring next to the two with Bors. "Arthur has done away with origins. We are not 'Sarmatians' to him. We are just knights; equality limited only by the respect that he is our commander, not by the fact that he is a Roman."

"I agree with Dag," Gawain said nodding while Dagonet had been speaking.

"Yeah, well I don't think we should release our guard so easily," Bors spoke up. "We still know little of him, and I'm sure as hell not going to be made a fool if he's jerking us for his own sick ploy."

"Exactly," Galahad agreed with a gesture in Bors's direction with his sword. "I believe our only choice is to keep ourselves open to possible manipulation."

Gawain agreed with that assessment, but Dagonet didn't say a word. He just found his eyes searching for Lancelot's sword in the area he could have sworn to have last seen it. His search revealed nothing. The sword had been removed.

6666

Arthur stood in the long wooden hallway filled with doors that stood closed and separated him from the rooms of his knights. The day's training had finished uneventfully following the sparring match between Arthur and Lancelot.

Arthur turned Lancelot's sword around in his hands, looking at its shape and feeling its weight. It was long and of good weight with a strong black handle and a rose shaped gold portion at its end for easy manipulation. Before the hilt of the sword, a gold crescent moon shaped piece faced upwards towards the tip of the blade. Penetrating its gold surface however, was an array of red lettering that resembled shapes and symbols more than the tradition English style of writing in Briton. It was a language he was unfamiliar with, and therefore unsure of the meaning of the symbols.

Carefully, Arthur lowered the sword so that the point dug slightly into the stone floor as he held it by the hilt and made his way over to the door. He went through the formality of knocking, but figured the knight would make no move to answer. His theory correct, Arthur slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open. Upon his entry, he immediately noticed Lancelot's figure sitting on the bed, his back towards Arthur. In the corner, Lancelot had rested his scabbards, the single sword resting alone against the wall.

Lancelot made no move to acknowledge Arthur, but also made no move to force him to leave. Finally coming to a decision about what to do about the knight's silence, Arthur brought the sword up into his hands again, and brought it in front of Lancelot.

"Tell me about it," Arthur requested in a gesture towards the sword. Lancelot looked up at Arthur before changing his focus to the sword, one of his most prized possessions. Lancelot didn't say anything for a moment, but much of the fight that he had released upon Arthur previously was no longer kept with such intensity. Gently, Lancelot took the sword out of Arthur's hands and held it out to its side so that he could seen the red writing more clearly.

"We were traveling back from delivering a message to a church about thirty miles east of the Wall, when we passed a small British village," Lancelot explained. "A flustered woman had flagged down our commander and pleaded with him to make ourselves of service to the village that had some how caught ablaze. Upon his consent, we split up and made ourselves useful in securing the lives of people still caught in burning houses.

"I found myself on the doorstep of a hysterical woman and a severely burnt house, but she claimed her child was still inside. I made my decision quickly, for it was better that I did for both my life and the life of the child; the house was on the verge of collapse. I found the child in a white bassinet on the brink of flame. Grabbing the child, I ran out of the house as fast as I could, securing his safety moments before the house finally collapsed.

"We stayed in the village for a few days following the blaze. I did little more than tell the woman my name before I found two swords in a black scabbard being presented to me. She handed them to me telling me she had watched me practice with the men with a single sword, and found it uneasy to watch.

"These swords had belonged to her grandfather, forged in that very town a century before. She believed I would wield them better than the single sword I had been provided with by the Romans. For saving her child's life, she gave them to me, taking care to have the blacksmith imprint words for me in my own language, as a sign of gratitude, and a fortitude of protection in time to come."

Arthur watched Lancelot's face as he told this story. This apparently was one of Lancelot's happier tales, for there was no sarcasm or sorrow in his voice as he told it. If anything, there was a slight sadness in the mention of the generous woman, but nothing more.

"What's the inscription say?" Arthur asked, hoping the knight would continue to open up and tell him his tale.

"'Yielded for the will of the land,'" Lancelot answered automatically. He fell silent, tracing his fingers over the inscription, lost in his own thoughts, but Arthur had a feeling he knew what the young knight was thinking.

"I have no doubt that you've yielded your swords faithfully," Arthur spoke with much confidence. "You haven't failed any of your comrades in your quest, just as you didn't fail her." Lancelot looked up from his sword and directly at Arthur, knowing that he was making a subtle reference to Toltheon. They both understood that connection.

Arthur finally broke the link, satisfied that the two had finally made amends, but before he made leave, he turned back for one last word. "Do not allow your swords to separate, Lancelot. Your strength is far superior when they are united."

Lancelot allowed himself a half grin as Arthur closed the door.


	7. Circular Bond

A/N: Hidey-ho! Thought I'd bring in the latest installments. My news is still the same. Thanks to all who have reviewed and continue to review. I am in a debt to you that can only be repaid with another chapter!

Chapter 7

The fortress did little to block out the evening chill that crept from room-to-room in visitation. It was so cold in fact, that the morning dew held ice to the tips of the grass and gave the appearance of a vast lifeless land. If the day had been somewhat warmer, the grass, resembling a damp leaf having been dipped in sugar, would have been given a more welcoming appearance, but along with the dew, a mist had settled in that seemed unwilling in its desire to rise and clear the land of its presence.

Lancelot awoke somewhat early and headed down to the tavern. He found Bors and Galahad already there, a bottle or rum open to be split between them.

"Well, well, well, look who decided to join us this morning," Bors jested as Lancelot approached the table.

"You should take it for a compliment. I don't sit with just anyone," Lancelot said grinning and taking a seat.

Galahad laughed and pushed the bottle in Lancelot's direction. "Don't know how much is left, but it'll do good in warming you up."

Lancelot picked up the bottle with more strength than he ended up using. "I should hope you have more." Lancelot took a long swig before setting it back on the table and wiping the back of his hand across mouth.

"But of course. The drinking hour has just commenced!" Galahad said pulling another bottle up from beside him. Lancelot grinned. Suddenly, a shivering breeze blew across the table. Lancelot felt the coldness spread through him despite the warmth the rum had brought him.

He reached for the bottle again, hoping to make the coldness go away but stopped when he saw the appearance of Gawain. The downcast expression on Gawain's face was appropriate for the weather, but puzzling to the knights. The laughter between the three knights seemed to dissipate, stolen as Gawain and his depressing aura walked passed the table.

"Gawain," Galahad said reaching out, causing Gawain to stop with his back to the group. "What news have you?"

"Silas is dead," Gawain answered, closing his eyes.

Bors's mouth dropped open. "Dead? How?"

"A freedom he believed in and kept by his own hand," Gawain whispered. These words were lost on the ears of Galahad and Bors, who remained thoroughly confused by Gawain's answer, but Lancelot understood.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Galahad demanded.

"It means," Lancelot answered, "that he took his own life." Lancelot looked grimly up at Gawain who turned around and nodded. Once that fact was out in the open, all of them understood why. Silas could have been retrained to fight and survive with the one hand that could still strongly wield a sword or he could take his life in the hope that freedom lied with death. Given the choices, Lancelot couldn't be sure he wouldn't have chosen the same thing.

7777

Secrets among the knights were hard to come by, but a death of one of their own was impossible to hide. As a result, Arthur decided it was best to cancel the day's practice. Instead, he scheduled a meeting in the fortress hall, hoping to bring encouragement in the ranks of his knights where it seemed to be failing. He wanted to establish where he stood among the knights, so that he was no longer their Roman commander, but a man not that much different from themselves.

The knights began filing into the fortress hall at the appointed time and instantly became confused. The long tables that had been originally placed with the ornamented chair at the top had been removed. In its place was a circular table that had the inner section removed so that a big "o" was formed. The outside of the circle had thirty identical chairs going around it, giving the knights no idea of where they should sit.

"What the hell is this?" Mace demanded while laughing.

"It's lunacy!" A young Sarmatian by the name of Korvin, responded.

"Everyone please find a seat." The knights turned towards Arthur as he entered the room. He went straight for the nearest chair pulled it out and stood in front of it. Korvin looked guiltily at Arthur, wondering if he heard what he said. Arthur's face however, was emotionless. The rest of the knights followed though many of them were still confused. "Please, sit." The knights in the room all found a seat and sat, but Arthur remained standing.

"By this time, I am sure the details to the death of your fallen comrade have become known to you," Arthur began. "The loss is unspeakable. The dedication all of you have shown is invaluable. I am not as oblivious to the fact that this life, this knighthood forced upon you, is a future not of your own choosing. I understand exactly what Rome has taken from you. I do not ask for that you wish not to give, but I do hope that as men we will have no titles amongst one-another. We fight and we make decisions for our own survival. For men to be men, we must first all be equal. Only then can we succeed. Only then can we make it through these years alive so that all of you can once again return to your homeland.

"Believe in my intentions how you will, but don't dismiss the lives of your comrades. The ones lost and the ones still among you. I wish to live to see the day all of you are granted the freedom you deserve, but until that time, we must not be blinded by the fact that none of us are more or less then men made up of the same design." Arthur took that opportunity to pause and look around the group. His eyes lingered on Lancelot who gave a slight nod indicating his approval for the speech. Lancelot believed in Arthur's words more than ever.

Not only were the words in his speech reinforced by what Arthur had told him last night, but present at the table they sat at. Ever chair looked the same, and its placement around the table allowed everyone to have an equal view of the others. There was no place here for anyone who did not want to be the same. Everyone here was to have the same respect for the other when speaking or listening and that was how the table had been arranged.

"These meetings, knights, are not to be filled with my own voice. No one is restricted from speaking. If an opinion is to be said, let not anyone prevent it from being heard," Arthur claimed. He became silent and waited, hoping that someone would speak the concerns he knew so many of the men were concealing.

Finally, a voice spoke up and Arthur turned towards the most commonly silent Sarmatian, Tristan. His voice held its strong accent and monotone speech as he asked a question Arthur could tell he already knew the answer to.

"Arthur Castus, you are a man of both Roman and British blood, yet your loyalties lie with Rome. Why should we take the word of a man who chooses to side himself with a country that undeniably conquers for its own fortune?" A few murmurs of agreement echoed around the table.

"Rome is a growing empire," Arthur stated. "With it, brings the center of cultural, scientific, and artistic learning. Though I do not endorse the way Rome takes young boys from their homeland, I believe that Rome's advances are essential to the development of every other nation. If I can bring those teachings of equality that have been taught to me into the Roman culture, then they can spread across the land with the mission of teaching other nations. There will be no more servants to the land. People will have respect for those whose differences rest in breeding or religion. This is what I strive for."

"Rome, Arthur, is thousands of miles away," Galahad pointed out, feeling the courage to speak. "How does your presence here benefit that effort?"

"I'm here to represent Rome, Galahad." Arthur turned and faced Galahad as he spoke. "If I can spread my beliefs here, to the outskirts of Southern Briton, while serving the orders of the Pope, then that's what I intend to do." Feeling that he needed to address his standings with Rome, Arthur turned back to the group. "Knights, I realize many doubts about me remain in your eyes. If I can do nothing to relieve you of my intentions with words, then so be it, but I am not here to take any more from you than you've already given. I'm not here to obtain fame for myself. I am here to protect Hadrian's Wall and the knights who help me guard it. Once you recognize that my intentions are not for my own benefit or your demise, I feel that we will be able to accomplish anything."

"Hear! Hear!" Lancelot said raising his glass of ale while standing. Some of the knights looked startled by Lancelot's sudden agreement to Arthur's words following their argument the following day, but those knights who believed in Arthur's words followed suite. Little convincing was needed to encourage the standing of all twenty-nine men.

Two Months Later… 

Arthur stood in his tunic removed of his armor and staring out the window. He had been pleased with the friendship and trust that had developed between the knights and him over the last two months, but he was troubled. None of the knights would have initially assumed there any reason to be. All the missions they had been on for Rome had been minor and met with little to no resistance from the Woads. If they did come across Woads, their numbers were often small and disorganized, but that fact is what bothered Arthur.

The attacks the Woads had been making on the Sarmatians were weak and would obviously be ineffective from their commencement with so few Woads and so many knights. Why they even started didn't make sense to Arthur. Of course the possibility remained for the Woads that the absence of a true leader caused ineffective attacks, but this idea did not sit well with Arthur either. Arthur had heard of Merlin, the supposed dark wizard who led the Woads, and as much as Arthur disliked Merlin for personal reasons, he had to give him credit for being more organized than he currently appeared. A suicide attack would also prove ineffective towards the causes of the opposing sides.

"Arthur," a voice said from the door. Arthur immediately recognized Lancelot's voice. The two of them had become increasingly good friends. Arthur trusted all of his men with his life, but none more than Lancelot. He couldn't tell what feature about the tall dark knight he found most intriguing or most annoying for that matter, but he found that he could trust Lancelot with anything. Perhaps, it was his spirit. Lancelot's strong beliefs from the first day he had laid eyes on the knight were a great cause for admiration. Especially when Lancelot had drawn his sword to challenge him. Lancelot's spirit was something that Arthur found in himself. After all, without his spirit to back his beliefs, Arthur would have no more reason of being there than Panador himself, but Arthur knew it was more than that quality alone that helped establish their friendship.

"The men have yet to see you appear for a drink. What troubles you so often as of late?"

Arthur turned around and found Lancelot leaning against the doorway, concern replacing the typical Lancelot smirk that sent the ladies wild.

"The Woads, Lancelot. Ever since the battle in front of the Wall their actions have troubled me," Arthur explained. "You know far more of the Woads than I, what do you make of it?"

"If it's a comparison you're looking for, I'd say the Woads seem less organized-"

"A conclusion I've noticed."

"Do you think perhaps Merlin has died?" Lancelot questioned.

"A possibility I haven't thought of, but unlikely. We are the main enemy of the Woads here, and we have yet to fight him."

"You have suspicions," Lancelot commented, knowing from look on Arthur's face.

"Something I cannot foresee has begun," Arthur said uneasily. "The attack of the Woads seems to be nothing more but a way for them to inform us that their presence is still there."

"If your concerns hold any truth, what is it that the Woads may be covering up?"

Arthur shook his head. "That's what I can't answer, but of course the most obvious answer is an attack on Hadrian's Wall."

"They've attacked the Wall before. There aren't enough in their numbers for them to take the wall," Lancelot protested.

"But if they could obtain more men—"

"From who, Arthur?" Lancelot demanded. He was sick of hypothesizes. "I do not dispute on the irregular activities of the Woads, but to suppose they are forming some type of army while keeping us distracted with unnecessary battles seems highly unlikely. Their most likely ally would be made of Saxons, and even the Woads won't result to such extremes."

Of course Arthur realized that his theories sounded unbelievable to his own ears, but he wasn't able to dismiss them as easily as Lancelot. It remained the only plausible theory he could construct while still believing Merlin to be alive. If Lancelot's theory about Merlin being dead was correct, then the attacks of the Woads would make more sense. Arthur however, didn't believe that the Woads could successfully keep Merlin's death from the rest of the world if it happened. Arthur nodded and was about to speak when a boy in his twenties appeared before them out of breath. A red cloak rested on his shoulders, but did little to cover his rugged appearance.

"Artorius Castus, I'm looking for Commander Artorius Castus," the boy rushed out.

"I am Arthur," Arthur said stepping forward.

"I bring word from Commandor Serqius from Chelmsford," he said while pulling a letter from his pocket and handing it to Arthur. Arthur took the letter, opened it, and began reading, meanwhile Lancelot turned to the boy.

"You came a great distance with no escort," Lancelot pointed out.

The boy looked Lancelot up and down. "I have no words to address a Sarmatian," the boy hissed.

Lancelot's quick temper caused him to reach for his swords. "Perhaps you are better with your sword then."

The boy glared at Lancelot. "That is what your people are good at, aren't they? Slaughtering the likes of those who stand in their way."

"My people? I believe you have confused my people with your own," Lancelot spat. The reference the boy had made confused him, but the insult was clear.

"Enough!" Arthur said finishing the letter and looking slightly distressed. He turned to the boy. "You may stay here for as long as you need, but if I hear you stirring up trouble amongst my men, I will see to it myself you're escorted off the premises." Lancelot sheathed his swords with a glare at the boy as he left the room before addressing Arthur.

"What news comes from Chelmsford?" The town was located on the most southeastern outskirts of Briton. It served mostly as a trading town because of its position at the edge of the North Sea.

"The answer to our troubles with the Woads, I believe," Arthur said grimly. "Lancelot, gather the men. We have a major issue to discuss."


	8. A Knight's Freedom

**A/N**: Sorry everyone. I've been working hard trying to balance the add-ons for three stories, and sometimes it's not always well, balanced. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thanks to **Camreyn**, **MissBubbles**, and **bob** for reviewing!

MissBubbles: Thank you! That's what I was striving for!

Camreyn: Mmmm, chocolate!

Chapter 8

The message from Chelmsford was the main stream of talk amongst the men who had already settled in their seats around the table. Those who filed in immediately joined in the conversation eager to hear what others had heard on the topic. Unfortunately, no one seemed to be of any more help to ease another's questions. The mystery surrounding the letter succeeded in remaining just that until Arthur came to the table.

The men immediately fell into silence. Arthur knew that they were waiting to hear what this letter would mean for them. Would this be another duty for Rome? Or was this something bigger? Lancelot had a feeling that it concerned every man in this room, but to what limit, he could do little but guess.

"Knights," Arthur began. The letter from Chelmsford rested closed on the table near his left hand. "The activities of the Woads as of late, has been irregular to say the least. Commander Serquis from Chelmsford offers light onto their actions, but before I read the letter to you, I must give warning." Arthur's eyes looked seriously across the faces of all his men. "I do not know how earnest this threat is. I know very little of Commander Serquis and how much his word is to be believed, but I do know that I will not enact any of the actions he has requested until I know what you think."

With that, Arthur picked up the letter and opened it before the knights. His deep voice instantly filled the hall.

"_Commander Artorius Castus,_

The hurried manner of my writing dictates that I refrain from formalities so that I may announce with great urgency the reasons for which I write. An attack has begun on the shores of Chelmsford. The fight was initiated at the hands of the Woads, but skilled horsemen soon joined them. It was later revealed that these people were men from Sarmatia. It seems as if the Woads and Sarmatians have combined their forces in a single army against the Roman Empire. I do not ask for reinforcements, for I fear that by the swords of battle there will be little time to act, but I heed you take my warning. Their route will surely take them North to Hadrian's Wall so that northern and southern Briton will once again be united. I've become aware that under your command, you have Sarmatian knights as forced loyalists to Rome. To your command, you have the right to take any course of action you wish, but I hope you will decide to terminate these men in order to prevent an insurrection within your own walls. Whether they've served well to Rome these past years will be insignificant if the opportunity of freedom comes to the doors of the Wall. I hope you will remain wise in your decision, as I've heard you to be in Romes honor in times before. May God watch over you.

Sincerely,

Commander Serquis Balint"

The knights looked at Arthur stunned. Lancelot's eyes were wide with realization of what the messenger meant by his words. The Sarmatians have initiated a rebellion against the Roman Empire, Lancelot thought with a surge of pride.

"Knights, before you speak on the contents of this letter, know this: I do not intend to have any of you killed," Arthur emphasized interrupting Lancelot's thoughts. "I also do not intend on preventing you from fighting for what you believe. You are men. Free men. You're capable of making your own choices. I will not ask you to fight with me in this battle." Arthur pushed himself away from his chair and stood.

"Arthur, where are you going?" Galahad called to Arthur's retreating figure.

"This decision does not concern me. Whatever any of you decide, is not for me to know," Arthur conceded.

Lancelot watched Arthur leave with a heavy heart. The basis of his message was plain. We can decide who we're going to fight for, but Arthur will stand to serve Rome.

"My decision is clear," Mace said standing up. "I will fight for Sarmatia!" A few others stood up in agreement.

"This is our chance for freedom!" Desiderio agreed. "A chance to fight for our own land. Our own people!" More and louder cheers joined in.

Lancelot stood up and pounded his fist angrily on the table. The room instantly quieted. "And what of Arthur? Are we to betray him when his need is greatest?"

"Arthur is a Roman. He has chosen his side and left us with our own choice!" Februus spoke up.

"Indeed he has, but this choice as any isn't to be taken lightly," Lancelot argued. "These past few months, Arthur has done nothing but treat us as equals. Have none of you realized what these past months have been for? These battles have not been for Rome. We've fought only for Arthur!"

"Then let Arthur fight for us!" Desiderio exclaimed. More murmurs followed this exclamation.

"Arthur owes us nothing," Lancelot said eminently. "He's given us his respect, his friendship, and his—"

"So you will fight against your own people?" Mace demanded. "You will turn to these men, who are in search of their own land, and hold your sword as a barrier to their efforts? You will shed their blood in the same way their ancestors before them fell to the empire of savages so revered as Rome? This is only how traitors condemn their people!"

"I am not betraying my people!" Lancelot shouted over the noise of agreement amongst the men. "But I do not easily dismiss my loyalty to Arthur, as none of you should. I blame none for their desire for freedom. I have no wish to stand on this forsaken Wall and defend its name for Rome, but I cannot forget Arthur. He has treated us as no other Roman has. We owe consideration to the least of his friendship if nothing else."

"I find amends with Lancelot," Dagonet spoke up. Many of the members turned. Dagonet rarely took the initiative to speak openly to the knights. "It is much apparent that an unanimous agreement cannot be found. Everyone has the right and the reasons to travel their own way, but let all of us be assured of our positions. When battle comes, we will most likely be fighting each other. None of us can live with hesitations."

The Sarmatian knights looked around at each other. None of them could see themselves pulling their weapons from another knight's body. They had become brothers in arms. They would fight for their comrades until death if they had to. Never had they thought a situation would arise when they might have to turn their swords to someone they cared for.

Desiderio looked around the table like all the knights had gone mad. "What is there to ponder? You keep speaking of Arthur. He may have become our friend, but he remains Roman. He will fight for Rome and in turn, he will fight for our slavery." He turned on Lancelot. "Does he not owe us the same courtesy of thought that you plead for him?"

Lancelot's features hardened. "As you said, he is our friend. Do you not remember the day he offered his own life if it could lift us from our chains? He is not like the other Romans, yet he is bound by them. I cannot ask him to change."

"Then he cannot possibly expect us to change," Desiderio said smugly. "Why should our swords be placed at one another's necks?"

Some one at the table shouted out "It shouldn't!"

"And there is no reason to," Desiderio continued, willed by the agreement of at least some of his comrades. "Our people have left Sarmatia to regain freedom. Why should we as Sarmatian knights, men more deserving than any other to have freedom from this life, strike them as if they were a bloody Saxon?" Desiderio let his words take effect.

Lancelot looked around the table and found the expression on many of the knights faces to be filled with a sense of hope that had been for so long trapped within the darkest reaches of their heart. They were ready to leave this life and return to their homeland. Little of Arthur's kindness seemed able to reach them.

"None of us are going to come to agreement as Dagonet assured," Lancelot finally spoke. "I am not even sure what path my own thoughts will take, but I know I can't forget this life. This battle that we are soon to face, will only be the beginning. Rome is a powerful enemy and if we were to lose, what we face now, will be nothing to what we face then. If we should win, though the odds are small, even our former lives cannot be returned to us." Lancelot looked down at the table for a moment before facing the knights again.

"I do not know if any of you have considered life following the end of our bonded duty, but I find there will be little left for me. I am a knight. My purpose will be to die in battle. Our people have rebelled, but in this time of such Roman strength, can we dream of succeeding? Can we think of what would really be left for those who survive, win or lose? It will be a bloody battle. Do not think that those who stand beside you now will be there when the first signs of dawn glitter over the horizon and Romans lay dead at your feet. Much of this you know already, but do not forget. This rebellion is one we cannot afford to lose, but one we cannot win."

"We've argued enough," Gawain broke in. "We all have much to consider. I suggest we adjourn." The rest of the knights agreed willingly and began filing out. Lancelot remained at the table, Gawain at his side.

"You spoke well, Lancelot," Gawain congratulated.

"Maybe so, but I am still conflicted," Lancelot stated.

"As am I. It was considerate for Arthur to leave us to our own decision, but I feel a decision cannot be reached until we've spoken to him," Gawain said suggestively. Lancelot nodded in response and brought himself wearily to his feet. Gawain led the way out of the hall and Lancelot followed. They separated when Gawain headed downstairs to the tavern and Lancelot headed upstairs to Arthur's room.

Lancelot reached the end of the hall and found himself hesitating for the first time before Arthur's door. He had no idea how to even begin such a conversation with his commander. No matter how the knight figured it, this battle was going to drastically change his life, if not his friendship, with Arthur.

Lancelot finally gained the courage and rapped his knuckles on the door. No answer came from within. Hesitantly, Lancelot pushed the door open and stepped inside. Arthur's room was empty. A fire had been lit in the fireplace, otherwise, the room looked as undefined as any of the other knight's rooms. Something on the windowsill, however, caught Lancelot's eye. A silver goblet was resting on the stone sill. The window was slanted open through the revolving iron bar at the center. Lancelot looked through it, and his eyes found Arthur.

Arthur sensed Lancelot there before he ever felt his presence. Minutes earlier, Arthur's view from the Wall had given him the perfect vision of the setting sun. Normally, he thought sunsets were a wonderful reprieve to the life of a knight. They were simple in their beauty, but at the moment, he despised it because he knew the moment the sun disappeared, the days would never be the same again.

Arthur turned to Lancelot with a questioning glance. "The men have not reached a decision," Lancelot said.

"My question does not lie with the men's decision, nor your own," Arthur stated. "You have searched me out for a reason I don't understand."

"I want freedom, Arthur," Lancelot cried.

"The Sarmatians and Woads have the same desires."

"But I don't believe they'll succeed. Even you must agree that there is little chance for them against the Roman Empire," Lancelot asked more than commented.

"I believe in God, Lancelot," Arthur said. "God teaches faith and hope. That's what I believe."

Lancelot looked at Arthur incredulously. "Is it not your God that the Romans get their power from? Their ability to turn honorable men into slaves?"

Arthur sighed. "It is not God, Lancelot, only people."

"I cannot fight this battle, Arthur," Lancelot said, bracing his body against the wall's barrier. He shook his head decisively, his black curls dancing. "I cannot raise my swords to my people, nor can I raise them to you."

"You deserve your freedom, Lancelot," Arthur said not looking at him. "You also deserve choice. I would tell you that I do not want you on my side if I thought it would have any affect." Lancelot looked at his commander, whose eyes refused to leave the horizon. He knew Arthur was trying to help him in his choice, but the light jesting only made his decision harder.

"I do not want you to regret your choice, Lancelot, so choose wisely," Arthur said finally turning. There was nothing in his eyes. Lancelot felt that Arthur was attempting to push him away, but Lancelot didn't want to hear it.

"Do not act in this way, Arthur," Lancelot growled.

"You came to me for guidance. I'm giving you it."

"Never in those words—"

"But in your questions—"

"I want your honesty—"

"You have it," Arthur said firmly. "I am but one man. Your people need your strength. I do not. Fight for freedom. No regrets."

"No regrets," Lancelot repeated. The words echoed in his head. _No regrets._


End file.
